Chapter Text
You have been living on the outskirts of the town for a good three years now, but you suspect it will be at least another four before everyone stops referring to you as the newcomer. Even longer before the priest stops glaring at you when you walk by.
The town is closely knit. These people will know each other from birth to death. Three years to them is naught, you will not be one of them until you call the stoneworker to arrange a headstone. That's a tradition in the town, death happens so quickly, and so frequently that it’s best to prepare for the worst.
Margery, who works at the bakery, is very excited about her headstone. Engraved with bluebells and dandelions.
Morbid. To be certain.
It doesn’t bother you all that much. You don't intend to stay long enough that you will join the townsfolk in the cemetery, you grow restless easily, moving from town to town every few years, just trying to find the right place. You’ll know it when you’re there, you are sure of it, but until then you are content to wander. Even if it means being the stranger time and time again.
There’s a rattle as you accidentally bump a jar of glass beads resting on your work table. You manage to catch it before it topples over. The beads took a very long time to make, losing them would be a disaster. The townsfolk don't seem to have much interest in your trinkets, so there isn't much money to be made, but you would rather be poor than give up the only craft you have ever loved.
You hiss, cutting the pad of your thumb on a sharp metal edge. Clearly it hadn't been sanded down enough, the blood tastes metallic when you bring your thumb to your lips and suck. Luckily, the brooch is almost done, a green clover with silver edges, delicate and light. The glass is thin enough that it catches the sun when it passes through, you continue sucking on your bleeding thumb as you sand down the sharp corner of the brooch. You’ve been working at this for hours now, you need to go for a walk before the sun starts setting, or else you’re going to get stir-crazy.
Your cottage is far enough away from the center of town that there is no need to walk through it if you are just looking for some fresh air. Given the choice, you would always prefer solitude. It isn't that you dislike people, just these townsfolk in particular. They are too suspicious, too withheld, too happy to ignore you whenever you walk by. You can’t help but wonder if that is just how these people have always been, or if there is something that began their suspicion of strangers long before you arrived.
It must have something to do with the castle. A good hour’s walk from your cottage, standing tall and proud at the peak of a hilltop, eerily quiet and empty.
They may hold you in some sort of contempt, but even still, the townsfolk do love to warn you. The castle is not to be visited, not to be snooped around. There are things there that shouldnt be disturbed, but you are so very curious.
It started off rather tamely, you weren't even close to trespassing, simply walking out past its front gates.
The closed double doors were like an open mouth, yawning, trying to breathe you in. Though the iron bars of the gate wouldn't allow entry even if you had wanted it, a thick mass of thorny vines curled around them, not at all safe for you to stick your hands into.
Brambles. You assumed at first. A mess of unkempt plants after years of abandonment.
Rose bushes. You later realised, the flowers were simply out of season.
Upon closer inspection, the curling vines were very deliberate, delicate and well arranged. Someone was still maintaining the garden, though the bitter chill of autumn kept the flowers from blooming, you could almost imagine how beautiful it would be when spring came again.
Your curiosity was less than stated. That first trip to the castle brought only more questions than answers, and when you turned to leave, you caught the briefest glimpse of a figure in one of the windows, high above the ground, watching you.
It was almost instinctual, but you raised your hand and waved goodbye to the figure.
They were too far away for you to tell if they waved back.
Maybe you shouldn't have, maybe it was a bad idea like the townsfolk had always claimed, but you just kept going back. Staring in through the bars, trying to catch a glimpse of the person living inside.
They must be lonely.
Just like you are.
It’s possible that is what motivates you to walk to the castle once again. Following the old path through the woods and up towards the hill. The grey waves of the ocean crash loudly against the rocks to the east, the wind is bitter and cold as you continue walking, tugging your shawl tighter around your shoulders.
The castle is ominous as ever, looming over the surrounding countryside and casting a long shadow across the grass. The towers reach up into the sky like slender fingers stretching out to catch the sun, the grey blue sky just barely peeking out from between them. It’s….ostentatious, you can't help but wonder what it was like in its prime. Filled with family members and guests, maybe the brickwork was lighter, not yet mossy and dark from years exposed to the elements. Perhaps it was friendly, perhaps the townsfolk would visit willingly, even happily.
Did something terrible happen? Or did the lords of the castle simply move away? The questions tickle in the recesses of your mind, begging to be answered as you step once again, up to the gate. It is locked, as it always is. Tempting you with what might lay beyond, with who might lay beyond, the mysterious benefactor, still tending to the gardens.
Cold air dances around your ankles, turning your cheeks and nose pink with the chill. The castle almost creaks and groans in the wind, like it is whispering to you, like it is alive. It draws you to it, you can’t keep away for very long, something inside those walls is calling to you and you have no idea what. You sigh, reaching out and gripping part of the gate not covered with tangled rose bushes, leaning forward to try and peer further past the bars and into the garden.
You yelp when the gate creaks open, and you go tumbling forward to the ground. You fall right onto the grass at the entrance to the garden, the gate swinging the rest of the way open so very easily. Suspiciously easy. Though you cannot bear to ignore this opportunity, standing shakily from the ground and dusting yourself down, stepping through the gate proper. The wind seems to change direction, pushing the gate closed again behind you.
Inside your chest, your heart beats wildly.
By all rights, you should know better than this. To continue further into the garden of a stranger, to ignore the mysterious circumstances that are occurring all around you. Curiosity is a powerful affliction though, and one you cannot hope to overcome without just a little look around. The garden is even more beautiful inside the gate, though it is a pity that you have come during winter when none of the flowers are in bloom, but you can see the beginnings of rosebuds growing on some of the bushes, still curled up tight as winter draws to a slow end. The grass is not overgrown like you had expected, it’s very well kept, tidy, exceptionally tidy, like it is maintained every couple of days.
In the centre of the garden. Is a fountain. A figure standing amidst a pool of water, hands splayed out on either side of its body, delicate, but strong. You suck in a breath, reaching out to trace the carving with the tip of your finger. Marble. Cold. It doesn't seem to have been taken care of as well as the rest of the garden, in fact, it seems to have been purposefully neglected.
“What happened to you…” you find yourself asking the figure carved in stone. Peering up to where you can see the head has been wrenched from its shoulders. The water in the pool around it’s ankles is stagnant and you can see what look like tadpoles moving around in it, you are careful not to step in the water when you climb up onto the edge of the pool for a closer look. The craftsmanship is astounding, were it not chipped and darkened by the elements, you may have mistaken it for a real person. You wonder who it was, you wonder what happened to them.
The air turns colder, heavy with what feels like oncoming rain, but you can’t turn back. If you leave and the gates close behind you again, you may never be able to get back in. All you can do is pull your shawl tighter around your shoulder as you step away from the marble statue and closer to the front of the castle itself.
It’s bricks are large and sturdy, from a distance the castle looks as if it has fallen into the early stages of erosion, but upon closer inspection, it looks that while there is some weathering on the side of the castle facing the ocean, most of it is still keeping together. The gaps in the mortar are all filled up with moss and grit, but the bricks themselves remain square. A small gasp escapes you, when you press a hand to the stone, and find it warm . You feel something tighten in your chest, when right by the castle’s huge wooden doors, you see what must have once been an inscription.
The name of whomever once lived here.
It is well worn, most of the letters are completely gone or covered with moss. What was once a proud declaration of the castle’s owner is now little more than a saddening remnant. You trace the lines of the name with your fingertip, attempting to sound it out on your tongue, but much too many letters are unreadable for you to grasp any semblance of what the name may have been. It appears...foreign...too. While using the same alphabet as most living in this part of the world, the parts of the surname you can read are...unfamiliar, and impossible to connect to any family name you have heard before. Again, you wonder just who lived here. You wonder if they were happy.
Lightning flashes bright across the sky, and thunder follows a mere second after.
Whatever storm is coming, it must be right over your head.
You panic, pulling your hand from the comforting warmth of the brickwork and turning back to the gate just in time to see the dark clouds forming across the sky. You're not dressed for the rain, and will surely find yourself sick tomorrow morning if you get caught in this storm. It’s your fault, truely, you let your curiosity get the better of you.
The rain starts to fall before you can even make it back to the gates, falling in a great sheet all around you. Your clothes are soaked through and the dirt beneath your feet turns to mud, you’ve never seen rain start this quickly, this heavily. A chill runs through you, your boots sink and slip on the wet grass under your feet, another flash of lightning cuts the sky down the middle and hits a tree off in the distance. Your shriek, careening to the wet ground, thunder rumbles so loudly that it shakes the earth beneath you and all you can do is shiver.
Curiosity may literally be the death of you, is all that you can think. Staring out at the path you need to head down to reach home, barely even visible behind the torrent of rain careening down from the clouds.
It’s just as you begin pulling yourself from the ground, that you hear the loud creaking of hinges long unoiled, of heavy wooden doors usually still and silent. You blink the rain from your eyes and turn your head, heart thrumming a rapid tattoo at the sight of the castle opening itself to you. There is no one in the doorway, no one there to have opened it, and yet it is open. Beckoning you. The warmth from inside reaches out and tangles around your fingertips, pulling you in. You don't resist, or maybe, you can't . The rain chills all the way down your spine, your boots squelch in the mud underfoot, and even though the voices of the townsfolk ring in your head, speaking warnings generations old, you step in through the door. Whirling around as it slams shut behind you.
Your breathing quickens. Eyes flitting around the entry hall to the castle, trying to find any sign of the person who had allowed you entry, and subsequently, denied you exit.
“Hello?” You call out, taken aback at how loudly your voice echoes through the empty hall, disappearing off down alcoves and into rooms you cannot see before bouncing right back, “Is anyone there?”
The ceilings are high, your wet footsteps echo off the tiles as you head deeper in, glancing around at the beautiful interior. Exposed wooden beams, delicate filgarie, walls painted in a lush forest green that pairs perfectly with the dark wooden accents. The castle must have been lively once, this entrance hall filled with people, chattering, laughing. If you listen carefully enough, you can almost hear the ghosts of happiness whispering from within the walls.
No one seems to have responded to your call, but you have sense enough not to go snooping too far. At least not yet. So you stick to the entrance, marvelling at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, candles casting a warm light across the room creating an attempt at homelyness that falls entirely flat. The castle surely is beautiful, but you can feel that it is lonely as well. Cleaned, decorated, but entirely empty. You place a hand on the wall to your left, once again finding it warm, like the castle itself lives and breathes. You feel sorry for it.
You feel even sorrier for the lonely soul who still lives here.
There is a fireplace off to the right, and a green velvet loveseat in front of it. Desperate to get out of your wet clothes, you pull off your muddy shoes and leave them by the door, not wanting to ruin the floors of your mysterious benefactor, and move over to the fire. It is plenty warm in the castle on it’s own, but the heat of the fire is something else, it feels like your skin itself is unthawing. You sigh happily, shucking your shawl and resting it over the loveseat to dry, quickly unlacing your dress and spreading it out as well. In only your white shift, the fire is easily able to reach your cold bones and warm you again, the shift itself is drying quickly as well. At the very least, it seems you have avoided getting sick.
“Thank you very much for your hospitality!” You call out, hoping that whoever is watching may at least hear your gratitude. It is also now that you realise all the windows in the entry hall are covered with thick black curtains, shutting out any light from the outside. You know that at least one window in the upper levels is open, having caught the silhouette of someone standing in it. But down here, without the candles the room would surely be cast into pure blackness. They must like their privacy.
You can still hear the rain outside, and there is no sign of it letting up. You decide that it would be wise to wait for your clothes to dry before even thinking about leaving, and even better if the rain had stopped entirely by that point. Your host does not seem to be bothered by your presence, and unless they decide to show themselves and ask you to leave, you may as well take advantage of their hospitality.
Thinking this, you quickly pull one of the cushions down from a nearby armchair and tuck it under your head. The rug under you is soft and comfortable, the crackle of the fire is homely and the rain outside soothing. Despite the strange circumstances that brought you here, you are comfortable, and it isn't long before you feel your eyes beginning to close.
What you do not notice, is the figure lurking at the top of the stairs. Watching over you as you finally fall asleep.
***
There's no telling how long it has been when you wake up. There are still no windows that you can look out of to determine the time of day, though you notice that the sound of rain has stopped. It’s still warm in the castle, warmer now that you are under a blanket.
Huh.
You blink your eyes open just a little, and can see the same forest green walls, but you are clearly in a completely different part of the castle. A guest room, it looks like. The bed you are resting on has crisp, clean sheets, a good deal more lavish than anything you are used to sleeping on.
There is a candlestick on the table by your bedside lighting the room just enough that you can see your clothes folded neatly on an armchair across from you. You can feel your heart racing again, this was clearly a gesture of goodwill, but the idea of being moved by a stranger while you slept is still uncomfortable. Though, your shoulders are grateful for having not slept on the floor all night. You try not to make too much noise when you slip out of the bed, padding over to your clothes and lacing your dress back up, it is bone dry, thankfully, and your shawl is too.
Now that you are dressed, you nervously poke your head out of the doorway, unsure of where you are in the castle, and unsure of how easy it will be to get back to the entrance. The hallway you are in is long, but lit up generously with candles. You quickly notice that all the other rooms are closed, locked as well you find out when you try a few doors. This must have been a guest wing some long ago, out of use, except for the room that was likely only arranged for you.
When you come to the end of the hall, you are relieved to see that it opens back up onto the top floor of the entrance, and that the staircase leads directly to the front door. As you begin walking down the stairs however, you freeze-
Because there he is.
The castle’s sole occupant is sitting on the loveseat by the fireplace, one long leg delicately folded over the other as he gently turns the pages of a book. You can't see much of him from halfway down the stairs, but his hair draws the eye like nothing else. White as bone, a mess of silky locks curling down around his face and the back of his neck, catching the orange glint of the fire, shimmering in the light.
You aren't sure what to do. All your confidence from the night before when you so frequently called into the depths of the castle hoping for an answer, is gone. He is still reading, so far as you can tell, and your boots are still sitting by the door, you just need to-
“I know you’re there.”
His voice. Is soft. It echoes through the open hall like music, delicate and airly, but even still it manages to be commanding. Your heart is racing again, your hand gripped tightly around the banister as you slowly descend the staircase. He doesn't move, he is still sitting straight backed in the chair, completely still, if he is breathing you don't notice it. He may as well be a statue.
It isn't until you reach the ground that he closes his book. Placing it gently on the end table beside him, and standing.
You are stuck frozen as he rounds the loveseat, walking with delicate steps that don't make a single sound on the tiles underfoot. His trousers are black and high waisted, tight around his thighs and fastened with two sets of buttons leading up to his waist. Your eyes are hopelessly drawn to the low neck of his shirt, loose and flowing, tucked into his trousers and almost entirely translucent in the light of the fireplace. From his throat to the base of his sternum is completely visible, pale white skin...collar bones pronounced and sharp. He is...ethereal...otherworldly. impossible.
“Did you sleep well?” He asks, “Apologies for moving you in the night, but the floor must not have been comfortable.”
It takes a few moments for you to find your words. He looms above you, tall and lithe with the most dazzling set of eyes you have ever seen, pale green and shimmering, long white eyelashes. It feels like he is staring right through you.
“I...I slept fine...thank you”
He smiles, and you feel it in your stomach. It’s like a drug...syrupy...and sweet. Though you swear you notice a glint behind his smile, something sinister that you can't quite place.
“Good to hear. It has been lovely having a guest, even for so short a time.” His smile turns sour and he sighs, crossing his arms, “Though I cannot allow you to stay any longer, and you mustn't return.”
That catches your attention, “What? Why not?”
The man giggles a little, covering his mouth with a hand as his eyes turn mischievous, “You are persistent, but I must insist. It is not safe for you here,” a bitter sigh, “and you will find me miserable company.”
“But, you’re the one who let me inside! Aren't you?”
“I am, but would you have preferred that I let you catch your death outside?” He steps closer to you, his height becoming only more apparent, white hair moving slightly in an absent wind. Almost like water, “I have been more than hospitable, but you must leave.”
You stare up at him, twitching with nerves and an ever powerful desire for answers, “Fine. I’ll go, for now.” you inch up on your toes, attempting to meet his intense gaze, “but will you give me one answer?”
“One.”
“Your name.”
He laughs again, though a little louder this time, “What a waste of a question, I am no one of interest.”
“You are of interest to me.”
“Ah. If that is the case.” His hand reaches out to grab yours, gentle and cold. You don't stop him, though you are suddenly sure he would not resist if you did, “Komaeda will suffice.” he whispers, voice like a breath of winter air, as he leans down and presses a kiss to the back of your hand.
“Komaeda…” You breathe. It suits him, and it feels nice to say. Like honeyed almonds, or crisp apple juice.
“If you are satisfied, you must leave now.” He relinquishes your hand, though the action feels reluctant. He doesn't want to let you go, and you don't want to leave. Something thick is hanging in the air, inescapable, heaving in every breath that you draw, “I am not good company, for a multitude of reasons.” His smile turns sad when he says this, “You would be best to return home, and not walk this way again.”
Your heart thumps, slowly but powerfully in your chest and you breathe, “I cannot promise that.”
“You are far too curious for your own good.” You catch another glinting behind his full lips, something that makes your head scream danger, “Go now before I stop being so polite.”
His voice is the same, delicate and lilting, but his tone turns grave. It’s a change so small, but so frightening all that once. Your knees shake, and you barely manage to keep steady as you walk to the door, though you cannot hear his footsteps, you can feel his presence lurking behind you as you shove your boots back on. Once again, the front doors swing open, just enough for you to fit through. Komaeda stays a few feet back, careful not to invade your personal space, but making sure you know that he is watching.
You swallow, “I hope to see you again.”
He laughs, but it sounds less like honey and more like gravel, “No you don’t.”
Just before you turn to leave, ready for the doors to close firmly at your back. You find yourself reaching into your pocket, to find the clover shaped brooch you had been working on. Your eyes meet his, something intangible zaps and stings at your chest, and you feel like even one step towards him would be too many. So instead, you crouch low to the ground, and leave the brooch in the doorway. He peers down at the gift, and then back up to you.
“The townsfolk don't much care for pretty things.” You whisper, voice shaky, “but I hope it will bring you some joy, Komaeda.”
You take a step backward, and the doors slam shut.